It was so, then—there was nothing to be done! Thyrsis was dazed—he could hardly believe it. He had never dreamed it could be anything like this.
“How long is this to last, doctor?” he cried. “She is suffering so horribly!”
“I fear it will be until morning,” he said—“it is a question of the rigidity of certain muscles. But you need not be alarmed, she is doing very well.”
He spoke a few words to the patient, and then turned towards the door. “I shall sleep in the next room,” he said to his assistant; “you may call me at any time.”
Section 8. So the two went apart again; and the leaden-footed hours crept by, and the girl still wrestled with the fiend. The young nurse was asleep on the couch, and the elder sat dozing in her chair; the two were alone—all alone! One of the window-shades was raised, and Thyrsis could see far over the tops of the buildings. Somewhere out there was another single light, where perhaps some other soul counted the fiery pulses of torture. A death—or another birth, perhaps! The doctor had said it happened twice every second!
Thyrsis was unskilled in pain, and perhaps he bore it ill; he feared that the nurses thought so too—that Corydon called too often for something, or cried out too much in mere aimless misery.
But the time sped on, and at last a faint streak of day appeared in the sky, and the shadows began to pale in the room. Thyrsis started, realizing that it was morning. He had given up the morning, as a thing that would never come again. He insisted upon sending for the doctor, who came, striving not to yawn, but to look pleased. Once more he shook his head; there was nothing to do.
The street began to waken. The milkman came, his cans rattling; now and then he shouted to his horse, or whistled, or banged upon a gate. Then the sun came streaming into the room. The newsboys began to call—the young nurse woke up and began to straighten her hair. The elder nurse also opened her eyes, but did not stir; she seemed to challenge anyone to assert that she had ever been asleep.
“Perhaps, Miss Mary,” ventured the young nurse, timidly, “we had best prepare the patient.”
Corydon seemed to rest a little easier now, and they carried her and laid her on the couch. They made the bed, with many sheets and with elaborate care; and then they brought her back and dressed her, putting a short gown upon her, and drawing long white bags over her limbs. Ah, how white she was, and what fearful lines of suffering had been graven into her forehead!